The Femme Fermental

Sunday, January 15, 2017

My Year, in Art

Keith Haring, The Broad

As I thought about the beginning of a new year, which, as Louis CK reminds us, “the turning over of one year to another is a mental construct that bears no more weight than the things that keep us apart and in competitive categories as human beings,” I realized that I saw more “good” art than I ate “good” food, in 2016.[1] My travels have become tightly focused on a mixture of food, art, and culture. Trips that were once fixated solely on eating as much food as possible have become a careful interweaving of art museums, subway rides, house tours, coffee shops, graffiti, beer bars, public sculpture, and restaurants. I plan and plan. I look up opening/closing hours. I obsess over location and safety. I plot the most efficient route. I want to see it all, wherever I go.

While finding exceptional food is still important to me, eating has had less importance and enjoyment since the election. I haven’t gone down the post-election path of Marc Maron, as much as I love his apocalyptic and dramatic tone: "As we head into a fairly guaranteed, dark unknown, I'm becoming a little more suicidal with my food choices...like fuck it, I'm just gonna eat this shit, what difference does it make? Why have I been denying myself? What's the point? Gotta enjoy it now while the joy has so much more of a profound effect in comforting me."[2] For once, I haven’t been eating to forget.

While I have eaten some good-looking food, I didn’t post a photo of food on Instagram until yesterday. Again, since the election, there is a sense that posting photos of food is unimportant. I realize it doesn’t matter if I post a photo of food, on my private Instagram account. Some of my unwillingness to post what I eat has been at the urging of New York Magazine’s Senior Art Critic, Jerry Saltz. He loathes food posts, judging these images as a reflection of our preference to “remain in [our] own bubbles…and stay immersed in the culture of celebrity and complacency.”[3] Before the election, about half of my photos were food. My approach has shifted, much in the way that my travel priorities have evolved. I have posted many more photos of art, landscapes, and facades. As such, I have been stuffing my brain with art, to forget.

Recently, I was asked to explain why I feel compelled to see art, in person. My answer came down to feeling “something.” That I could have emotions about something. That I know something so beyond me exists. That a painting, or sculpture, or installation, can overwhelm me, confirms that I’m alive. Perhaps most people don’t need confirmation from external sources to know that they are alive. Yet, I do.

I found a more eloquent explanation for my feelings about art in a book I read last week: Karl Ove Knausgård’s My Struggle: A Death in the Family. I finished Book 1 in a week. I am deep into Book 2. I know that I’m in it for the duration (six books). Among the gorgeous details of his daily life are equally dazzling revelations about writing and art. Somehow, I relate to the mindset, anxieties, and troubles of a Norwegian, married, father of four. In Book 1, he writes about viewing a book of paintings by John Constable: “I didn’t need to do any more than let my eyes skim over them before I was moved to tears. So great was the impression some of the pictures made on me. Others left me cold. That was my only parameter with art, the feelings it aroused. The feeling of inexhaustibility. The feeling of beauty. The feeling of presence. All compressed into such acute moments that sometimes they could be difficult to endure. And quite inexplicable.”[4] This experience, often unsayable, is what I seek out.

In December, I wavered over going to NYC for the day. I had bought a cheap train ticket a few months prior. I was tired, busy, and felt like I should have done something else with the day. But, I went. It was clearly the right choice. I visited six galleries and the Guggenheim. “Filling my brain up” with art, as Maron always calls it, was the temporary answer to whatever I had been feeling in my post-election depression. Whereas food may have helped me before, right now it’s art.

For some reason, I began to think about all the art I had seen in the last year. I realized that I had the best art year of my life. As I ran through the list in my head, it was longer than I had imagined. Thus, I’m documenting it below, in chronological order. Highlights, in photos, are below.

1. Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago, Chicago, IL

2. The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, IL

3. Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio, Oak Park, IL

4. Frederick C. Robie House (Frank Lloyd Wright), Chicago, IL

5. Smith College Museum of Art, Northampton, MA

6. Hampshire College Art Gallery, Amherst, MA

7. DIA: The Dan Flavin Art Institute, Bridgehampton, NY

8. The Judd Foundation/Chinati Foundation, Marfa, TX

9. The Phillips Collection, Washington, DC

10. Philadelphia Museum of Art” Philadelphia, PA (“International Pop” and “Paint the Revolution: Mexican Modernism, 1910-1950”)

11. James Turrell, Skyspace at Chestnut Hill Friends Meeting, Chestnut Hill, PA

12. Anton Kern Gallery, “Richard Prince: The Douglas Blair Turnbaugh-Collection (1977-1988), Los Angeles, CA

13. The Broad, Los Angeles, CA (Cindy Sherman: “Imitation of Life”)

14. LACMA, Los Angeles, CA (Agnes Martin)

15. Tate Modern, London, UK (Georgia O’Keeffe)

16. The Hepworth-Wakefield, Wakefield, UK

17. Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Wakefield, UK

18. Royal Academy of Arts, London, UK (David Hockney RA: “82 Portraits and 1 Still-life”)

19. New Orleans Museum of Art, New Orleans, LA

20. Storm King Art Center, New Windsor, NY

21. DIA: Beacon, Beacon, NY

22. North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh, NC

23. Ann Hamilton, “habitus,” Municipal Pier 9, Philadelphia, PA

24. “Philadelphia, Goddamn,” Little Berlin Gallery, Philadelphia, PA

25. The Whitney, New York, NY (Carmen Herrera: “Lines of Sight”)

26. The New Museum, New York, NY (Pipilotti Rist: "Pixel Forest")

27. South Dakota Art Museum, Brookings, SD

28. NYC Galleries: Rothko “Dark Palette” (Pace Gallery), Joseph Albers “Grey Steps, Grey Scales, Grey Ladders” (David Zwirner), “Ai Weiwei 2016: Roots and Branches” (Mary Boone Gallery, Lisson Gallery, Jeffery Deitch), “Implosion 20” (Anton Kern Gallery), Bob Pruitt “The Obama Paintings” (Gavin Brown Enterprise)

29. The Guggenheim, New York, NY (Agnes Martin)

With the exception of England, New Orleans, Raleigh, and The New Museum, I went to all of these places by myself. In some ways, over the course of the year, I was on a mission to reclaim my ability to be alone. There was no one to converse with, about what I saw. There was no one taking the perfect photo of me in front of famous paintings. It was all me, the art, and whatever I felt. And that’s what I’ve been after, especially since the election: a feeling that something matters.

Matisse, The Art Institute of Chicago

Ellsworth Kelly, The Art Institute of Chicago

Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio, Oak Park, IL

Frederick C. Robie House (Frank Lloyd Wright), Chicago, IL

DIA: The Dan Flavin Art Institute, Bridgehampton, NY

Prada Marfa, Valentine, TX

Judd, Chinati Foundation, Marfa, TX

Flavin, Chinati Foundation, Marfa, TX

Twombly, PMA

Richard Serra, LACMA

Ed Ruscha, Tate Modern

Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Wakefield, UK

The Hepworth-Wakefield, Wakefield, UK

Sol LeWitt, Storm King Art Center, New Windsor, NY

Dan Flavin, DIA: Beacon, Beacon, NY

Frank Stella, North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh, NC

North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh, NC

Ann Hamilton, “habitus,” Municipal Pier 9, Philadelphia, PA

Joe Boruchow, Little Berlin Gallery, Philadelphia, PA

Aubrie Costello, Little Berlin Gallery, Philadelphia, PA

Carmen Herrera, The Whitney

Pipilotti Rist: “Pixel Forest,” The New Museum

Frida Kahlo, PMA

Sol LeWitt, PMA

Art Alley, Rapid City, SD

Ai Weiwei 2016: Roots and Branches

Ai Weiwei, Laundromat

Rothko “Dark Palette” (Pace Gallery)

[1] Louis CK, e-mail message “From Louis CK,” December 24, 2016.

[2] Marc Maron, WTF with Marc Maron, Ep.767, December 12, 2016.

[3] Jerry Saltz, “This Post-Election Pain Is Good, At Least for Art,” Vulture, November 13, 2016, accessed November 13, 2016, http://www.vulture.com/2016/11/post-election-pain-is-good-for-art.html.

[4] Karl Ove Knausgård, My Struggle, trans. Don Bartlett (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2009), 207.

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Some Times in England...

From the Tate Modern viewing level

After visiting Iceland last year, I decided I could travel internationally by myself. I wanted to visit an English-speaking country for my first solo-international trip. But, then, this summer an opportunity arose. I met someone about to take a vacation, during my summer break. And so, I joined this person, born in England, but who has lived in Philly for ten years, on a trip to their home country. We spent ten days driving around the (almost) entire country.

Instead of detailing the whole trip, I’ll hit the highlights. I didn’t necessarily have expectations for England. I am not an Anglophile. I re-watched The Trip and did a bit of research to prepare. Unlike everyone else I mentioned the trip to, I knew that the food would be good. In fact, I had three of the more incredible meals of my life, as well as the best Indian food I’ve ever eaten.

The Fryer's Delight

The trip began with a jet-lagged dinner of fish and chips, in London, at The Fryer’s Delight. I did eat fish and chips three times while in England. The Fryer’s Delight was, as explained to me, less fancy, but more, not sure of the word, maybe traditional or “old-fashioned.” The Fryer’s Delight was certainly different than the others; it wasn’t the fluffy batter you might expect. It was tighter, and the taste of fryer oil was nice.

The next day we made it to the Tate Modern before dinner. I was not missing the Tate. I remember Marc Maron talking about the Rothko room. I, somewhat frantically, moved through the stunning and crowded Georgia O'Keeffe exhibit to find the Rothko room. There was limited time at the museum and I wanted to digest the Rothkos. I found the room and spent about twenty minutes enjoying the dark maroon and black paintings. The room is dimly lit and the paintings are deep. Sitting in the room felt both ominous and cathartic.

Middle White, St. John

We had dinner at St. John: the first of three particularly excellent meals on the trip. The experience was spectacular. I knew it would be. I was most excited to eat foods that we never see in America. Middle White? Yes. Every piece of pork I ate in England was better than every piece of pork I have ever eaten in America. This seems to be evidence of the fact that the American meat industry has screwed everything up. Beyond the food, the inside of the restaurant and the service was lovely.

After visiting Borough Market, to sample various seafood, meats, and cheeses, we drove south from London. An accidental booking brought us to the Isle of Wight. Yet another place I desired to go because of a song lyric. The only reason I know of its location, spelling, and existence is because of The Beatles’s song: “When I’m Sixty-Four.” A short, expensive ferry over, and a nice sunset drive, led to the best Indian food I’ve ever had. We didn’t necessarily need to eat a very late night dinner, but the gentleman at the front desk, at the hotel, told us we had a chance to get to an Indian spot before it closed, Fatimas. I am so glad that we did. We ate out of the containers on a stone wall next to the restaurant. A far more expensive Indian dinner in London, later in the trip, couldn’t compare.

Atlantic prawn cocktail & sardines on toast, Hix

Next we traveled southwest towards Cornwall. The drive through Devon and Dorset was the most beautiful scenery of the trip. Incredibly hilly farms, separated by neat tree lines, seemed to float in the clouds. We stopped in Lyme Regis for another excellent meal: HIX Oyster & Fish House. The tiny restaurant sits atop the hill overlooking the town and sea.

In Cornwall, we stayed in a yurt on a farm. The yurt had no electricity, but there was a separate space attached with a kitchen, running water, and bathroom/shower. We drove further south to Mousehole, purchased seafood in Newlyn, and ate dinner at the yurt. Despite the driving rain during our entire stay in Cornwall, the yurt was a highlight of the trip.

Hawksmoor

Next we drove north to Manchester. We stopped at a smokery for lunch and continued to Manchester to see a match at Old Trafford. I wanted to experience the vibe of a soccer match. I’ll call it a “match,” but I don’t think I’m conceding on the “soccer” versus “football” point. I might if I wasn’t so connected to American football. The match, a "friendly," was somewhat sleepy. It was interesting to see that drinking is not allowed in the stands. Signs warn that if you take a beer into the stands you will be arrested. I can’t help but think that American football could benefit from this bit of civilization.

The next day, in Manchester, after I practiced yoga, we had the third of the three brilliant meals: a perfect lunch at Hawksmoor. The cocktails, the glassware, the food, the old train station décor. Everything was flawless.

After a quick family visit we traveled south. We stopped for pies at Standforths Butchers in Skipton. Then we made two art stops: The Hepworth Wakefield and the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. The Hepworth is very small, but had a few items of note. There was an interesting personal collection with drawings by Miro, Sylvia Plath, and Calder. There were also three I-Pad drawings by David Hockney. These there were stunningly bright and eye-catching.

I wanted to go to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park for a James Turrell. I will go out of my way to see any Turrell. This one is a Skyspace inside of an 18^th c. deer shelter. It was very hard to find in the park. I have to imagine that many people miss it, unless they are looking for it. The middle of the day isn’t the best time to see a Skyspace, but it still had a meditative quality. We laid on the benches for nearly an hour, watching the clouds move past the opening in the ceiling.

Sunday roast, The Jugged Hare

We continued southeast to Cromer and stayed outside Norwich for the night. Then we drove back to London for two more nights. We ate upscale Indian food at Gymkhana, saw a comedy show at the Comedy Store, went to the Royal Academy of Arts for an awesome David Hockney show, and ate Sunday roast at The Jugged Hare. That evening, we grabbed way too much kebab on the way to our hotel near the airport.

Two months later, I’m still forming my thoughts about England. I realized that “New England” is a very appropriate name for New England; much of the landscape, save the farms in the southwest, is the same. I see why Boston felt like home to many colonists. I understand why the colonists cared so much about tea; having a nice afternoon tea is rather enjoyable. I learned that pub culture is a real "thing." As a place of exchange and discourse, the British pub is very different from most American bars. The local pub is a centuries-old meeting place with historical importance in England. No matter how many baskets of flowers you hang outside of a building, or how much you try to recreate British pub fare, the pub is a cultural phenomenon that can't quite be transplanted to America.

Overall, England seems to be a more civilized and apologetic version of America. Besides the architecture, London was very much like an American city. As an international city, London has the trappings of the forces of globalization. It seems wrong to see a Subway and Pizza Hut everywhere. Many spots felt like a smaller version of something in New York. I wonder what it would be like to have known London before New York.

But, the food was worth the trip. The produce, meat, and seafood was all that much better than what we find in America. I ate fish and shellfish I could never eat/eat so fresh in America: whelks, cockles, spider crab, brown crab, oysters. I’ve already waxed philosophical about pork.

When I returned from the trip, I didn't think I ever needed to go back to England. But, now, I've softened. I would return. Albeit, I'd make a few different choices. Regardless, every trip is an experiential lesson worth the price of admission. Sometimes, you have to go. And, whatever you find is what you need.